


(don't) say you do

by OnyxSphinx



Series: newmann one-shots [115]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, ish, the precursors are bastards and not in the cute way newt is, there's a resolution? and it's not too angsty?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:13:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21528127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: They do keep in contact, that's the thing; and maybe that's why it feels even more painful when it ends.
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Series: newmann one-shots [115]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1286762
Kudos: 25





	(don't) say you do

**Author's Note:**

> anon asked: "Newt doesn't understand why he tries to stay in contact with Hermann but Hermann is getting increasingly irritated with him when he calls. Because Newt isn't aware the precursors reach out to Hermann to be cruel and distant and Hermann feels all yo-yoed around."

He writes a letter; says he’ll write a letter, says he’ll email Hermann daily; hand clasping tight on Hermann’s shoulder before he leaves; a smile quick on his lips. “Nothing’s going to change,” he promises, “it’ll just be like before—except you won’t be able to throw chalk at me.”

“I’ll invent teleportation,” Hermann replies, and smiles as well; but it’s achingly; this pain, sitting heavy on his heart.

Newt laughs; then, at that; head thrown back for a moment, his laughter ringing sweet peals through the bitingly-cold winter air. “I’m sure you will,” he says, after a moment; eyes twinkling. “And hey—it’s not goodbye, yeah? Just…see you later.”

Hermann nods; doesn’t trust himself to speak; not now.

“See ya,” Newt calls, with a wave, and then he’s gone; disappearing up the ramp, and the plane’s lifting off, and then it disappears over the horizon, leaving Hermann standing by himself, cane clenched in his hand; knuckles whitening.

“Goodbye,” he murmurs, finally; eyes stinging with tears.

“Sir?” calls one of the airport employees, “are you okay?”

“Yes, I just—” Hermann draws in a deep breath; scrubs at his eyes. “I’m quite alright, thank you,” he manages.

* * *

Their schedules don’t line up, so it’s email, mostly, with the occasional text and phone-call. It’s actually not half-bad, even if Hermann misses him terribly; like a yawning chasm in his chest. Newton often leaves him in the dark for a bit before replying, but really, it’s understandable; he’s working a very demanding job.

The text-message in the middle of the night wakes him up; it’s the ringtone Newton set for him, years ago—classical music, surprisingly; Vivaldi’s _Spring._

He groans; cracks an eye open. It’s not that early, when he checks the time; past five.

It’s Newton.

_what r u doing?_

_Trying to sleep,_ Hermann replies, pointedly; but it’s mostly in good humour; he’s smiling already; adds a smiley-face and hits send. _How are you?_

Newton’s typing, for a minute; then his icon disappears. Hermann gnaws his lip; turns to go back to sleep. Before he can even close his eyes, though, the first few notes of _Spring_ hit the air, and Hermann’s typing in his passcode with hurried fingers.

 _tired,_ Newt says, _kinda stressed. i miss working with people who actually care about what they’re doing._

Hermann swallows; can taste the fatigue, almost, through the bond. _I’m sorry,_ he replies. _I miss you, as well._

He means to hit delete; the confession spur-of-the-moment and too earnest to bear, yet, but his finger slips, and he hits send; the _delivered_ flicking to _read_ mere fractions of a second later.

The ellipses appear, then disappear.

Hermann thinks, perhaps, that the feeling he’s experiencing is rather similar to having a horrid sun-burn and then being thrown into the Arctic cold in turns.

_what._

It’s flat; it _feels_ flat, and then, a second later, _i can’t fucking believe_

_this?_

_now?_

_really, herms? im havign a bad day ans all you can think abouttt_

_i s ur fucknig patheti c CRUSH on me?_

They come in quick succession; words misspelt as Newton types rapidly, and Hermann’s heart is in his throat. Shakily, he types, _Newton, I’m very sorry_

 _fuck you,_ Newton snaps back; and then, _sorry if i fucking lead you on okay??????? like im sorry if for some reason somethng i saif made you think i give a shit. My type is a litte les of “defective dipshit” and more “actual human being”_

 _Newton, I—_ Hermann starts; stops; backspaces. _My apologies,_ he writes; instead.

_good. fuck off with your fake sympathy since its just to try and get into my pants_

Hermann sets the phone down; takes a shuddering breath. When he picks it back up, Newton’s blocked him.

* * *

Hermann writes.

It fills up a full two pages, double-sided, and then he takes another look at it and cringes at how _needy_ and _clingy_ it comes off as, the begging, the apologies; swallows and rips apart; throws it away into the trashbin, the not-quite-yet-dried ink staining his fingers an accusatory black; starts anew.

 _Dear Newton,_ he writes; scratches through the first word sharply, the pen bleeding with the force of it. _Newton,_ he starts again.

The letter, this time, is shorter.

It’s amicable.

It sounds more like the writing of someone who’s collected themselves.

It is an apology.

He seals it and sends it; doesn’t expect a response.

Gets one, anyway; two days later; chicken-scratch letters barely decipherable. _What are you apologising for? -Newt_

It’s this that does it; the feigning of innocence, as if he doesn’t know what Hermann means; as if he’s not the one who asked him to, succinctly, _fuck off._ He bites his lip; pen digging into the paper sharply.

They don’t talk about it.

Conversation ricochets between cold and harsh, and the Newton that Hermann knows. He marks it down to stress.

The next time Newton calls, though, he snaps; it’s been a bit worse, lately, and he just—needs _time,_ needs stability. So he tells Newton he’s busy; that he’s interrupting important work; that Hermann has better things to do than to listen to Newt ramble, and then when he hangs up, he tries not to think about it.

* * *

It’s not until later that he learns what had happened; years later, when the ache has faded, some, to a dullness that’s bearable, nearly; after the Precursors are banished from Newton’s mind and he’s back in control of himself, and when he clings to Hermann after they unshackle him, face nuzzled into his neck, and Hermann coughs; nudges him away.

“You’re not thinking straight,” he murmurs; hand steadying the other, and Newton blinks at him, wide-eyed.

“What?”

“This,” Hermann says; and moves away, a bit. “I don’t want you to feel— _indebted_ to me, or guilty that you don’t return my affection. You already made it quite clear you haven’t any interest in me.”

Newton stops; stares. Sits down, suddenly, on the ground. “…what?”

Hermann shrugs. “I know you weren’t exactly—at your best, but I doubt—”

“Shit,” Newton hisses; suddenly, and then, “those _fucking_ bastards—they did it, didn’t they? That what—that’s why you kept acting weird about things. They said something, didn’t they—and then I couldn’t remember it, and of course, you were still upset about it…” he trails off.

Hermann stops; doesn’t speak, for a moment, just letting Newton’s words sink in.

Suddenly, the oscillation makes sense; no wonder it didn’t seem like Newton—because it _wasn’t,_ and he could nearly cry at that thought; that it _wasn’t_ Newton. “Yes,” he says, because he’s not sure he can say any more than that, with this emotion rising in his chest, now.

“Oh, Hermann,” Newton says, “I’m so fucking sorry, dude. C'mere—let’s go sit down in actual chairs.”

He rises, and Hermann follows after; more slowly; sits in the chair by his side. Newton reaches out, pulling him in closer, and Hermann lets his head fall against the other’s shoulder. “I’m so, so sorry,” Newton says; again, and presses his lips to Hermann’s forehead.

“It's—” Hermann stops; thinks it over; the kneejerk-reaction almost coming out, but—"it’s not alright,“ he says, "and it hurt me. But I…I know it wasn’t your fault. And I’m sorry, too, for pushing you away. Thank you for—apologising, I mean.”

“Yeah, man, of course,” Newton says; cards his fingers through Hermann’s hair. “I get it. And I’m really fucking sorry you dealt with that shit. Can I…is there anything I can do?”

Hermann mulls it over. “Just…be here,” he says; finally.

Newton nods. “Of course,” he says; and then they don’t speak for a bit; just sit there, Hermann leaning against him, quiet.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
